Sunday, January 4, 2015

Day 5 - Things Back Home

This tome is comprised of vague insinuations of truth, illicited from a questionable source,  and loosely based on fiction.  Don't get too attached to any fixed concepts of veracity.

Peetz, CO - 1972

"If you're not from here, or you don't live on a farm, there must be somethin' wrong with either you or your people"

That's just  the way some of the old-timers down at the co-op gas station saw things around town.- "If, by chance, you hail  from some zip code where city-slick  knot-heads think hamburgers are animals,  and cows are pets - then friend,..... you truly are disadvantaged".

This particular utterance could be issued verbatim from the seat of a smokin' John Deere or from the topside of a saddle horse, and still have the same ring of almighty truth to it. Around my hometown, we had ranchers and farmers alike, and they all blurred the lines regarding job description. You didn't survive long out here without a healthy working knowledge of tractors, horses, football, cows, and gestation periods.

 Every farm  boy worth bug spray had, by the 9th grade, learned how to castrate both hogs and calves, how to plow in a straight line, how to swing a rope, how to put on a jockstrap in the right direction, and how to stick their arms up a cows ass and pull a calf out if some unfortunate bovine was being difficult with her delivery.

If you couldn't shoot milk out of a cows teat and hit a barn cat 15'  away, and if you couldn't shoot a .22 at a rabbit and split hare before he hit the hole,- you were considered crippled, and eligible for placement in a convalescent home - where you could live out your years making potholders and blowin bubbles in your noodle soup.

In our little corner of Paradise, weddings and Championship football games were always ample enough reason for  big boozy celebrations,  and keg after keg of Coors beer.  Out of town guests to these chivarees, upon  being fed copious amounts of cheap whiskey from gallon jugs and 3.2 suds from the keg , were often as not ranked on 3 things. A.)Their level of gullibility,B.) their capacity for liquor, and C.)their propensity for assinine antics when in full-on blackout mode. These innocents were so often the canvases upon which great works of art were rendered..

With some caution I relay the re-telling by an old friend sworn to anonymity, of a particularly drunken June wedding that had family coming from 3 states and descending like well-dressed locust  on his parents farm for 3 glorious days. A  perfect storm of well-farmed opportunity for some country cousins from the "holler".

A few of the  boys had been anxiously awaiting the arrival,  for the nuptials, of the screwiest cousin in the family. A gangly and odd pubescent city boy who sniffed his fingers incessantly and had gotten caught pleasuring himself in the closet in 6th grade.

The boy was, by the time of the wedding, 16 and now fully screwy as a 3 dollar bill. A highly insecure example of what happens when you let the baby nurse too long.  He tried ever so hard to bolster his stock with the rough and tumble farm cousins at every opportunity by  obnoxiously and incessantly bragging to the boys, behind raging nervous acne and out of earshot of the adults, of his staggering prowess in the city as a cocksman of great repute.

 He claimed a small harem of deliciously exotic and  mega-smokin' hot babes rested at his beck and call with baited breath both  night and day, wlling to provide him with pleasures known only to Hindu sufi's and workin' girls. Complete bullshit but the poor kid was just trying to keep his kite in the air.

This day the boys all listened, wide-eyed in rapt amazement to the cousins tales of feminine conquest. Along,with appropriate oohs and ahhs  timed perfectly for effect - Always  making sure that the red plastic beer cup in the braggards  hand was foamy and full.. 

As the youths  level of inexperienced drunkenness increased and his tales grew even more blue and detailed,  the wiley farm boys related to him  in strictest confidence,  much to the lads drunken  astonishment that - sometimes, out on the farm, when young willing women were hard to come by,  young virile men would resort to coupling sexually with  milk cows to relieve the "pressures".  "No shame in it" they said. .  "It's part of the farm life that everyone knows about and noone really talks about" . 

. A shot or two of cheap warm whiskey later , and a little more pressure on the ever so subtle "bovine-love" sales-pitch, and it just wasn't long until a couple of Polaroids were catching shot after shot of an obviously  inebriated  teenager and a very confused cow. 

There's not much funnier out in the sticks than a drunk  from the city on a feed  bucket behind a milk cow, with his drawers pulled down to his loafers,  and and a fresh load of hot cow shit steaming vigorously around his ankles. (It's how Holsteins say no) It got stupid funny when the cow kicked the bucket over.

I never heard what happened to the poor fella but I heard tell that his Mother was giving a talk on appreciation for nuns the next week to her Rebekkah Lodge at church, and apparently a couple of the racier shots showed up in her slide reel. I've always been pretty sure she had the poor kid killed or lobotomized with a soup spoon.  

Next up: 
A man tried to buy me a $500 hat
Goose hunting at the sewer lagoon
What not to say to the Mrs. when drinking

Stay tuned and until Manyana
"Screw down on 'er Newt, She's a real polecat today"

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